Swish
by icewater1
Summary: "It all started when I woke up in a dumpster. And then somehow, life brought me to stand at a red emperor's side. Funny, that." Trial fic, as this is a plot bunny I -need- to get out of my head. Semi self-insert fic/OC. Chara has no previous knowledge of KnB. Starts at T, may move to M later. Very slow burn romance.


Hey all, this is my first time writing a "real fanfic". Mostly, I'm doing this because this plot bunny has been riding me ragged and I can't concentrate on other things. Opening's a bit dark, but the rest of the story won't be like that. Constructive crit. always welcome. See additional notes at the bottom. Am new to posting here and having issues with formatting, sorry!

* * *

The first thing I noticed, rousing from the sensation of nothingness, was the stench. Rotting meat, excrement, and the overpowering tang of copper assaulted my nose. Gagging, I drunkenly rolled to side and felt my hands squish into some sort of viscous ooze. Revulsion surged through my veins and I retched uncontrollably, puke splashing down my front and coating my arms. Panicking and still choking out bile, I whipped my head around in confusion. It was dark, and though I could hear faint rumbling sounds, they were muffled somehow. My limbs were sluggish, uncooperative; I flailed about with fingers outstretched, desperate for a solid surface to ground myself with. A cool metal wall appeared under my hands and I leaned on it in relief, uncaring of the thin slime that coated it. Reason returned to me, briefly. A dumpster, I was in a dumpster. Why or how, I did not know.

I ran my hands up the wall, in search of the lid. The dumpster seemed impossibly large. I staggered upwards, ignoring the nauseating feeling of garbage pulping beneath my bare feet, determined to free myself. Clumsy fingers found a crack, traced them to the upwards indent of the lid. I pushed - it creaked, but did not budge. I pushed again and again, frantic. It was so heavy. I didn't understand. Dumpster lids shouldn't be this heavy, even the weakest adult could lift one. For a moment I was consumed by despair. Then, the thought of dying in this wretched dumpster filled me with a desperate shot through me, and with a mighty heave, the lid flipped open. I sucked in the fresh air, sobbing with relief.

It took several long minutes for me to calm down. I raised a hand to wipe away some of the grossness on my face and paused in confusion. Small, pudgy hands greeted me. A frantic pat down revealed chubby cheeks and short legs. Uncomprehending, I stared down at tiny feet coated in a rust colored substance. Looking down was a mistake. A dismembered corpse stared vacantly at me, eyes accusing. I screamed and screamed, and it was the wail of little girl.

* * *

Concerned citizens found me, alerted the police. Their babble swirled around me, but I ignored it all. _Shock_, I thought distantly. A kindly looking Asian man in an unfamiliar EMT uniform was cleaning me off with a damp towel. His voice was low and soothing, and I could tell from his tone that he was gently asking me questions. I stared at him blankly. There was a small mole on the left side of his nose and it suddenly became the most interesting sight in the world. It was oblong shaped and a dusky brown - it looked like any other mole and I kept my gazed riveted to it, comforted by its normality. Then, there was the prick of a needle in my arm, and I closed my eyes and slept.

* * *

I woke to the quiet beeping of hospital machinery. An Asian nurse was replacing my IV, and started slightly when she noticed my lidded stare.

"You're awake! That's good. I promise that you are safe now." She smiled, eyes gentle. "You're a very brave little girl, you know. You can call me Yukie-chan.[1] Now, please stay calm and let me get the doctor, okay?" Yukie smoothed a hand over my hair, then stepped over to an intercom on the wall. I squinted at her as she held a quiet conversation - something about the way Yukie talked was strange. Not bad strange, but different strange. I brushed it to the back of my mind. I wiggled my way into a sitting position, glared at my little girl hands, and _thought_.

The doctor - also Asian - arrived and introduced himself but I ignored him. I was lost in thought, but didn't resist as he poked and prodded and checked my vitals. Yukie and the doctor exchanged glances above my head, but let me be.

* * *

I knew I was American. I knew my father was a second generation Japanese immigrant, my mother Caucasian. I knew I was 23, somewhat shorter than average and had graduated with honors from a liberal arts college at 22. Unsure of what to do with my life, I had been working as a low rung translator for a shipping company that did business in Japan. Or so I thought. There were huge gaps in my memory, encompassing my entire life. I tried to trace my steps up to the point where I ended in the dumpster, but the memories were murky and unclear. I couldn't even remember what I had done last week. And then there was the undeniable fact that I was currently physically 7 or 8. _Yeah_, I thought, with a touch of hysteria, _I really don't get that part at all_.

The police came and I gave them quiet, curt answers. _No, I couldn't remember how I got in the dumpster; no, I couldn't remember what happened; yes, I knew my name and my parents'; no, I didn't know if my father had argued with anyone recently; yes, I could describe waking up in the dumpster_. The bigger picture was starting to build in my mind as they questioned me for the better part of a week. I was in Japan - no wonder it had been so unexpected to see so many Asians, and to hear Yukie talk - and their records claimed I had immigrated to Tokyo with my father four months ago. The DNA of the corpse in the dumpster matched that of my father, except when they showed me a (non-mutilated) picture of him, it didn't quite resemble the Hiiro Yasaaka I knew. Supposedly, my mother had also died not too long ago, prompting the recent move from the US to Japan. My mother's picture, too, didn't quite match up with my memory. That was disconcerting.

Two weeks after I opened my eyes in that dumpster, I was discharged from the hospital. No relatives had come to claim me, and my status as a Japanese or American citizen was still being debated by the government, so in the interim I was released into the care of a local orphanage.[2] It was small and well-kept, though it was clear it only received modest funding. Barring a couple of the older matrons who sniffed at my mixed heritage, the caretakers of the Kita Way House[3] were kind and sympathetic, and gave me space to grieve.

But I was a practical and logical person at heart, and I rallied myself. The fact that I was now living a different life could not be changed, I reasoned, and it was farfetched to believe this was all a hoax intended to get some (non-existent) information from me. It was equally preposterous to believe that I had somehow been reborn as a child, and I often wondered if the trauma had caused me to hallucinate my adult life, but my memories were occasionally so clear, and sometimes I knew things so far beyond the grasp of a child, that I couldn't quite bring myself to believe that I was insane. So, I decided I would live my new life as "genius" child until age could catch up with me, at which point I would see where life took me.

Of course, this was easier said than done.

* * *

[1] Technically, Yukie would be addressed by her last name with the addition of the polite honorific of "-san" but hey, she's talking to a traumatized kid and all. "[First name]-chan" would be more informal and more welcoming for a child.

[2] I'm gonna fudge some legalities here. There will be a more in-depth explanation in the story later, sorry.

[3] I'm using a way house as a semi-permanent house for older children who have not been adopted (or are unlikely to be adopted). They are divided by age groups - the Kita Way House is for children age 6-14.


End file.
